


Withered Roots

by evil_bunny_king



Series: Fic Exchanges <3 [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: DAficswap, Dalish family feels, Gen, No Trespasser Spoilers, Post-Endgame, Solavellan mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:56:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/pseuds/evil_bunny_king
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the months after the death of Corypheus, Amaris Lavellan finds a moment to breathe. The clan visits.</p><p>A family-feels romp in the wake of a victory that feels more like a defeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Withered Roots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dalishious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalishious/gifts).



"They're here, inquisitor."

Amaris' quill paused in its scrawl of notes in the margin, quivering above the page. A beat. The scout shifted awkwardly at the mouth of her tent, the crack of hardened leather loud against bird call and camp activity, before mustering herself to try again. "The Lavellan envoy, serah. They've just arrived. They're wanting to see you."

Amaris watched the ink swell at the end of her quill tip. It dripped, slowly, onto her painstakingly-drafted letter, bleeding across the parchment.

They were here.  _Talen was here_. She'd waited for this. Wanted this.

"I will be there shortly." Her voice sounded odd to her ears, rasped and tired, like her mother's had before she left. She licked at her dry lips. "Please ensure they are welcomed. Fed and watered."

The scout nodded and then shuffled out of the tent, back first - like she dared not turn away from the prophet resplendent in worn keeper robes, too-long sleeves worried to bare thread and scratching spider steps of ink across her wrists.

Amaris put the quill carefully to the side and buried her head in her hands.

Breathe, she told herself, fingertips digging into her scalp. Breathe.

It had been a few months since the defeat of Corypheus. The inquisition was at the last a lauded and feared force across Thedas, host to diplomats and dignitaries alike, and Skyhold had swelled with the mass of their entourage, filling with the bustle and noise of human life until they’d teemed from the halls like burrowing termites.

Amaris had hated it.

There was only one group of people she needed to see. Only a few in particular amongst them that she wanted to - but they all had been marooned by the mess of Wycome, forced aground by the riot of hate and fear that had consumed the Thedosian countryside.

Her clan. Her family.

They came now only because she'd summoned them to tell them the truth.

(but was it, really? What had they left of that, anymore?) 

Perhaps it was fitting that she'd tell them here, among the Graves. It had not been her intention - the forest offered solace, purpose, communities and lives to help rebuild amidst the ruins (of lies that had bred more yes but there was hope here too, she knew it – there had _been_ hope here, new life and new meanings and that - that meant something). Nonetheless. Perhaps it could be right, to tell them here. To begin to unravel the distortions and fragments of their past – here. 

But when she pulled herself, gently, to her feet, exited the tent with staff in her unmarked hand - the withered trunks of the Graves stared down at her, grasping limbs scraping away the stars, pitted by the failing light.

She looked down, averting her gaze, and wound her thumbs around the torn hems of her sleeves as she passed beneath them and into the torchlight. 

As the Scout had promised, by the central campfire Lavellan waited.

"Andaran atishan," she returned to the lead hunter as she pulled up before the small group, calling up an unconvincing smile.

Hanan smiled back at her, a strain in the lines weathered into her face - and that strange stir of awareness twisted in the back of her mind at the vallaslin painted there, felt like a breath murmured against her ear.

The well was less silent, these days. It latched onto fragments, associations, unspooling memories like so many pieces of broken glass – and the impressions washed through her in waves of nonsense. But they were discernible, still, from her own. Ignorable. Controllable, she was certain - and _she was still in control_.

Hanan smiled and began her collection of question and Amaris smiled back, the well subsiding, presenting her answers in due course.

She found her gaze sliding away as the questions continued though. Found herself eagerly scouring the small group for a single face in particular - one that he’d grown into, perhaps, in the months since she’d seen him last.

Not all of the clan could come, but her cousin, at least, she knew would – and indeed there he was, lingering (as ever) at the edge of the group.

His jaw  _had_  narrowed a little more, she saw. Or maybe his cheeks had simply thinned, a little more baby fat melted away as the days had, worn away by hunger, the length of their besiegement.

Talen caught her eye, mouth thinned - and held it, his eyes dark in the dim light of the fire.

She didn’t know how to begin deciphering the expression harboured there.

It took her a moment of silence to realise that Hanan had stopped speaking.

Turning from her cousin with effort, she refocused on the hunter, fighting the hot tears that prickled at her eyelids.

_Breathe._

“Ir abelas, hah'ren,” she apologized, lowering her head in supplication, summoning appropriate (she hoped) contrition to her features. “It’s been a long day. What was your question?”

The older woman considered her with an equally unreadable expression, brows drawn, but she relented easily enough, the lines smoothing into another smile. The bowstrings traced beneath her eyes wrinkled with it. “Simply inquiring after your health, lethallin. I’ve asked you before not to call me hah'ren. I’m not that old yet.”

Her tone was light, and the accompanying warriors – the three of them, and then Talen - joined her in laughing, a tired but comfortable sound that stirred a warmth in Amaris in turn - and it had been a while since she’d felt that, the comfort of comradeship. She managed a real smile at that, some the rigidity of her stance softening.

The well’s voices clamoured, too. Just briefly: a vision of ethereal light stretching like spun glass between two pairs of hands, from large to small, crystalline daisies blossoming in the spaces between.

She shook it off.

“I am well enough, thank you,” she managed, planting her staff in the leaf mulch and using it to support her weight. She felt so very tired, suddenly. “Although much remains to be done, of course.”

Another crinkle of a smile from Hanan. It was almost odd to see, after all of these weeks of weary, awestruck faces that barely dared to look up at her, even as they lingered by the roads to watch her pass.

“Well, don’t worry on our account. Your…  _soldiers_ ,” (there was bemusement in the pause)  _“-_ have acquitted us well. If we can be of any service, while we wait for the other clans, lethallin, we will be glad to be of help. You’ve done much for us. We haven’t forgotten.”

The hand she stepped forward to clasp Amaris’ shoulder with was firm, her eyes hazel and clear as they peered into her own, and it jolted another shred of warmth through her as she blinked back (she hadn’t been touched- not as a clanmate, or even a friend - not since…). But she didn’t have a chance to respond before she was released, the Dalish retreating to wipe down weary mounts and finish assembling their temporary camp. Idle chatter sprung up around them once more as they disappeared between the surrounding tents.

Talen didn’t move to follow them. He stirred into motion as the others began to leave, skirting around the campfire with quick steps, and then he was before her - his arms wrapping around her, gripping, tight. She clung back, pressing her face into his shoulder, into the warmth and  _reality_  of him. His coat stank of hart, riding leathers and peppermint, oddly enough and she laughed at that. Wound her fingers into his coat to hold him there.

She had missed him. She'd missed them all, but him especially - her brother, if not by blood, who she’d helped raise, confided in, and eventually abandoned, a year ago when she’d departed for the conclave.

“You’re an ass,” he informed her thickly, eventually. He may have changed but his voice – that was the same, and if she shut her eyes, wished away the shem camp then things could almost be-

She huffed another broken laugh. “It’s good to see you as well, lethallin.”

They stayed like that a moment. His coat was wet, she was increasingly realising – except so were her cheeks, and her eyes, and so she must be crying, then, weeping into his shoulder like a little child.

It was that thought that pulled her from his arms. Gave her the presence of mind to breathe, swipe the moisture from her eyes, become his elder sister once more, although he wouldn’t release her entirely, hands settling on her forearms instead.

When she looked up again his face was a mess of its own, the grime smeared further across his skin, but he was smiling.

“You’re an ass and I hate you,” he told her. “You didn’t come back. You left for the conclave, we thought you were dead, and you never visited, not even once.”

“I’m sorry.” She hiccupped around the words, the sound almost startling a giggle from her, before she took a breath and tried to calm herself, counting out her exhale. A beat. “I’m sorry, there just- was no time, between the Inquisition and the mess at Wycome, but- you’re right. I should’ve come.”

He said nothing more to that, just crushed her close again, tight enough that she could feel his heartbeat through their clothing, beating alongside her own, that little bit too fast.

“Will you come now?”

There was a shake to his voice as he asked, the request muffled by her hair, and she swallowed around a new lump in her throat, tightening her arms in their loop around his waist.

“I don’t know.”

 

—

Her tent was as cold as she’d left it when the two of them shuffled inside, both still sniffling, although the initial hysteria had ebbed, now, leaving her with the strangest sensation of floating as she pushed into the space first.

The grip of Talen’s fingers against the tent flap as he followed her through triggered another splinter of alien memory – brown fingers running across silk brocades, idly tracing whorls of silver beading, the sensation of contentment, humming joy, reunification and family and she turned her head sharply to loosen the vision, striding to her pile of furs in the corner, ducking as the roof swooped low at the edges.

Talen didn’t seem to notice her lapse, to her immense relief. He was too busy slouching into the centre of the tented space – a makeshift study and bedroom tall enough for him to stand at its center, and wide enough to fit the large bedroll, portable desk and low stool within the oilskin walls, although there was scarcely any space to spare.

He let out a long whistle as he pivoted on the spot, drinking this all in. She wondered if he’d had much chance to investigate the ‘shem lifestyle’ during his time at Wycome; whether he’d been able to finally to begin to quench his inexhaustible curiosity about them. He’d even threatened to run away to the city once or twice, in their youth.

“Step up from an aravel, isn’t it, ‘Maris?

When he swivelled to face her, she was confronted once again with the incongruences between her memories and the reality. There was a new scar nicked into his cheekbone. Lines- not quite from laughter, and not quite sorrow, either, creased with his smile, and the new length to his face, gaunter than she recalled. Was his chin always so firm, or had she forgotten it? So many little details had blurred away during her struggle against the shem’s would-be god – the sort of god she’d have thought the humans deserved, once, the monstrous incarnation of the horror they’d inflicted upon the world.

The thistles of Talen’s vallaslin looked like scratches in this light. Falon’din’s, the voices whispered easily, as if she hadn’t already known. She still remembered why he’d chosen it. What it had meant to him, then.

And as always she remembered the grove.

_-_

_“They are slave markings.”_

_“That… that can’t be true.”_

_“It is.”_

_“But they mean more, now. Something new. We aren’t slaves any longer.”_

_“Not slaves as such, no. But are the vallaslin so very changed? You are marked in reverence of selected gods, branded as acts of devotion, just as they were then. The Dalish simply- forgot.”_

_She lapses into silence and Solas’ expression crumples. Pain, for once unfiltered, consumes his features._

_“I am sorry. I didn’t say this to hurt you._

-

Solas was wrong. Even then, she’d known he was wrong, even as her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth, the words in her throat, adrift in revelation. And her markings had remained, a testament to her people’s endurance, a defiance in a language of their own. A different language, than what they thought it was. But theirs. Theirs.

But would Talen feel the same? Would any of them?

“…’Maris?”

Her cousin’s voice, tentative, shook her from her thoughts, and she realised that she had been staring at him, silently, standing with her feet in the furs. He reached across the scant foot that separated them, wiping his sleeve against her cheek, and she realised she’d been crying again too, tears gathering beneath her chin.

She shifted away from his touch and scrubbed angrily at her cheeks with her sleeve.

Now was not the time.

“…Are you alright, ‘Maris?”

She forced a smile and dipped her head to avoid his searching gaze. “Of course I am. More importantly, how have you been?”

He ignored the question, cocking his head to the side. Frowned slightly, as he raised his hand again, poking at the braid that crossed her shoulder. “You changed your hair.”

She reached back and touched the hasty braids she tucked her hair into this morning. They hung heavy on her neck – something that had annoyed her, before, but she didn’t really seem to notice that these days. “I- yes. It was easier this way. There are more important things to focus on, after all.”

His head tilted further, the frown deepening, and she gestured to the stool and took a step away - ushered him towards the seat, retreating further into her bedroll. “Please, sit, Talen.  _My home is your home, as always_ ,” she added in elven, a little softly, and was gratified to see that he’d understood it by the smile that briefly cleared his features. He’d kept up his studies, then.

He sat. She seated herself amongst the quilt and furs of her bed, her feet tucked to her knees, and carefully placed her staff on the floor besides her, only then returning her gaze to her cousin.

They considered each other and the silence stretched.

“Would you like a blanket?” she tried after a moment, proffering one towards him.

He laughed at that, shaking his head, before seeming to come to a decision and leaning forward onto his knees, fixing her with that still-bright gaze.

“So. Herald.” He noticed her flinch at the title and leaned back in his seat, holding up his palms like he was placating her. “Inquisitor, then-” Another laugh. There was a familiar curiosity hungering in his features, restrained in each curve of his form. “You’re kind of keeper to the whole world now, aren’t you?”

Her lips pursed, at that. Maybe there was a smile there, too, because that was  _so incredibly Talen_  – but then again, he was still talking. “It’s just like what you always wanted, isn’t it?” Her pout became a scowl, indignant, and he raised a hand again. “No, hear me out - it’s a lot of responsibility, sure, but think about it. You can make a difference for more than just the clan, now. For the city elves and dalish alike; you could even change the world if you wanted too. That’s… pretty amazing, ‘Maris.”

She raised her brows. “This isn’t a game, lethallin. It’s… quite the opposite, actually.”

Her voice broke a little on those final words, but Talen just nodded, refraining from commenting as he rested his forearms on his knees once more. “Of course. But still. The possibilities, ‘Maris. It’s… something.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” She sighed. “It takes a lot of patience. And attention to detail.”

“And we both know how crap I am at that,” he finished for her with a smile. “Well, better you than me, cousin. And better yet that I didn’t go to the Conclave with you, after all. One less corpse to clean up afterwards, no?”

Her brow wrinkled at the reminder, and she met his gaze, searching for the expression that accompanied the words. He’d been so angry, when she’d left. It had been his chance to get away from the clan, she’d known it even as she’d denied his request- but he smiled when he saw her looking. Shook his head at her.

“’Maris, I forgave you months ago. I know why you refused. It was the right thing, even. Don’t worry about it.”

“I…” She was at a loss for words, with that. Relieved. And as always with him, a little flustered. It would always surprise her how easily he could read her, like she was an open book, even with all the pages that had been torn out. It was comforting to be reminded there was still someone who could.

“So. Tell me.”

She blinked away errant thoughts as his voice cut into her awareness, and caught his eye again. Raised an eyebrow. “Tell you what?”

His expression didn’t falter – if anything, his grin grew that little bit wider. “Everything, of course.”

She snorted. He really hadn’t changed. “Everything.”

“Yes!” He waved his hand, encompassing the tent and the forest beyond. “The humans. This mark. The insanity with that demon-king, the sky splintering open, spirits and blood mages and gods-”

“Blood mages?”

“- you know what I mean, chaos and the end of the world and the dread wolf knows what else and you - at the centre of it. Your letters were crap, by the way. So now I’m asking in person. How are you, truly? And what happened with this - Solas that you mentioned?”

She couldn’t control the shudder that shook through her at the name – months, it had been, but the hurt still lingered, like little hooks under her skin - and Talen’s face softened, his hand reaching out to graze her own where it rested on her knee.

“’Maris.” He wound his fingers between her own, securing them tightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to- I just-”

He took a breath. Dipped to catch her eye. He’d matured, somehow, over the intervening years.

“Talk to me. Tell me. Please?”

She took a breath. It shook, on the inhale, and the exhale left her feeling weaker than before, a buzzing burring through her limbs. But maybe that was alright. She was so very tired.

“Alright.”

Shutting her eyes, she began.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the third round of the daficswap for the wonderful dalish-ious on tumblr (BlightQueller on AO3). Hope you like it, dearie!
> 
> and APOLOGIES I ONLY JUST REALISED THAT I HAD SOMEHOW DUPLICATED HALF THE STORY AT THE END WHAT THE HELL


End file.
